All posts tagged: people

Afternoon Shallows

I found the pip between my teeth an hour after the bitter bite of garden currents had faded from my tongue.   In the middle of a meeting, too close between collegues to spit or pick the pith from my mouth.   Instead I chased it from cheek to cheek along the ring of my lower lip to the hollow beside my molars.   The presenter lost his place, tapped again at his laptop, muttered a word , asked someone to call IT.   I swallowed by accident. Choked, drew a worried glance, waved it away with a glass of water.   Outside the cleaner checked bins, roll of bags at her hip, quick, quiet between the desks, she whisked any evidence away.   The Summer heat has been making it difficult to sit down and write. Nowhere feels comfortable and I’m constantly shifting position to try and ease that sticky, gross feeling that comes with trying to do anything at all during hot, summer days. I’d really love to hear people’s thoughts on this …


The ripples are gone when I look, searching the water for a slip of silver twisting back on itself leaping skyward in panic or ecstasy perhaps. I think about you and I, or at least the phantom of us that clings to my lungs on slow days, crawls onto my shoulders to press my face down, down, down, down where I deserve to be when my own body twisted back on itself, my mouth searching for a way to swallow the words I’d spoken, to return them to the saftey of unspoken rather than the spotlight of my glowing red cheeks as I fumbled to dress myself in what I thought was maturity. I can feel nails along my spine, when I think of how much I wanted to be loved.

NaPoWriMo – Day Twenty-Five: Poison

If you run your hands along my sides you can feel the ridges beneath my skin, the raised lines of glass, an old pharmacy trick, so those who could not read their words wouldn’t pick up the poison by accident.   When you have peeled my clothes away, they will still be there. The final line of defence when all the labels have been cast off and you could be forgiven to think I was medicine instead of arsenic wrapped in curves.


Sleep drunk you curl into me, mutter half a sentence, and slip away again. These mornings, where the sun sneaks in past the darkness of the blinds to trip across the covers in soft waterfalls of light I latch my legs into yours, find a rib to cling to, tuck my head into the hollow beneath chest and chin and let myself breath slowly. unworried by the tussle of hair, rumple of sheets, tangle of chores waiting downstairs, I lie here with you. Daily Prompt: Messy  

This Is Not Weakness

Will you still love me when I got nothing but my aching soul Lana Del Rey – Young And Beautiful   This Is Not Weakness I take pride in my independence. The way I make decisions for myself, choosing how many rungs to climb, which skill to equip my mind with, which challenges to tackle next.   That is why when I stare at the ceiling, listening to the rain outside our window in the early hours before dawn breaks I have to remind myself that this isn’t weakness.   I dare not tell people how you stand guard against the blue days. How you can peel the lead from my bones, soothe the hurricanes in my head, and find me among the shadows without a torch.   These days, it is not right to need someone but some days I can’t do anything but need you.   I have to remind myself that this is not weakness, this is partnership, and love doesn’t make me any less. I am allowed to cling to you when the …

Beautiful Fragments

On Tuesday I punched my fist into the nettles at the bottom of our garden. My whole arm lit up with fire, and I screamed through clenched teeth determined to see if the poison would do anything beyond hurt. See, I’m an expert at cradling wounds out of sight. My pockets are full of scars my handbag crammed with bruises and you can hear the piece inside me rattle if you shake hard enough. I’ve been broken so long the edges are too worn to fit back together again. Instead I collected them like sea glass in jars along the windowsills, and when the sun rises they shimmer in every colour you can imagine. They are still beautiful to look at. Written For The Daily Prompt: Prickle

The Blue Days

Some days the curtains won’t close tight enough, the mattress won’t sink deep enough and despite clutching at the duvet, pinning it around desperate limbs, drafts still snake their way in. On those days it doesn’t matter how tight I screw my eyes shut, the light is always there behind my lids, prickling, waiting, demanding that I emerge and acknowledge it. Those were the days I didn’t leave my bed. The ones I missed class and didn’t explain why. A time I don’t ignore, but I still can’t name in confidence. I let it sit in my memory like storm clouds on a horizon, not close enough to worry on, but a reminder that the sun doesn’t always shine and I haven’t always managed to smile instead of cry.

What Are Little Girls Made Of?: Breaking The Stereotypes In My Head

What are little girls made of? Sugar and spice and all things nice That’s what little girls are made of. You know something, until I was eleven, ‘SUGAR!’ was a swear word. Mum didn’t want to swear in front of my sister and I so she’d say ‘Sugar’ instead. I even got in trouble for copying her once, which looking back seems a little ridiculous as I wasn’t technically swearing, and it hasn’t stopped me cursing as an adult. She does swear in front of my sister and I from time to time these days, but sugar has remained fairly prominent in the family vocabulary. It’s quite amusing. Aside from being my family’s swear word substitute, sugar is also one of the key ingredients in creating little girls. If you have any snips, snails, or puppy dogs tails lying around then you can make yourself a little boy instead, but for this post we’re going to be focusing on the feminine. Nothing personal, I just have the first hand knowledge to go with that half …

Roundabout Fury

‘The phrase “ignore it and it will go away.” does NOT apply to being chased by a dozen cop cars… trust me on this one. ‘ Amy swore and pressed herself into the passenger side door as Ken flicked off his indicator and skidded around the roundabout at sixty. ‘For fu-‘ Her words disappeared as the car clipped one of the council’s new ‘keep our streets clean initiative’ bins and rubbish exploded across the car windscreen. ‘Can you believe the weather?’ Ken tutted and turned the windscreen wipers on. ‘I blame global warming.’ Behind them the screech of the police sirens grew. ‘Shall we have some Radio?’ Ken asked, already reaching for the dial. ‘Ken!’ Amy lunged for the steering wheel and wrenched it towards her as they began veering right. ‘Shit, Amy!’ They hit the curb, and then the flower bed of freshly sprouted daffodils, before the eventual howling whine of the town park’s wrought iron fencing. Coughing on the smoke now pouring from the engine, Amy fumbled for her seat belt. Across from …